


Anima

by chubbychoco



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, Minor Character Death, Science Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbychoco/pseuds/chubbychoco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S43-R70 is their last hope; John knows that.  If he doesn't make it out of the stasis tube, the project will be declared void, funding will stop, and they'll lose everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anima

The dead body was the least of their worries, John knew.

They’d lost seven in the last two weeks.  Eight, if you counted the man who had panicked in and accidentally strangled himself with his own lifeline…but while it was unfortunate, John didn’t mark his death as even half the disaster that the others were.  It made no sense, he thought sourly as he looked at the screens, then up at the floating corpse of their now deceased volunteer.  The research had been going splendidly - a few more months, maybe even weeks, he’d been so _sure,_ and Watson’s Anima would have been finished.  Mankind’s knowledge of human psychology wouldn’t have just been changed, it would have been _revolutionized._

And then the test subjects had started dropping off like flies.  One after another, gripping the railing of their beds and screaming incoherent sentences about nightmare worlds, they’d gone into cardiac arrest with almost methodical timing.  Desperate, John had put the latest batch in stasis tubes, suspended in oxygenated perfluorocarbons, monitored every body function and brainwave to find out what was happening…and the results were just as heartbreaking as they had been before the tubes were implemented.

“I just don’t think we’re capable of accessing the full extent of our brainpower, Doctor Watson,” his assistant sighed, looking up at the tube and cutting the oxygen flow to it.  The poor bastard didn’t need it now, John thought wistfully, and the others were all but desperate for it.  “Especially when it relates to our subconscious.  Those sorts of things stay locked in the back of our minds for a reason.”

John shook his head, not of any sort of mind to hear it.  “No.  I just need _one.  One_ person to explain how to access it.  _One_ survivor, damn it.  It would change everything.”

“So you keep saying,” she sighed again.  “But in the meantime, people are dying.  This man…do you have his family’s information on file?”

“No,” John responded, looking back down at the screens with a distressed expression.  “He was a homeless volunteer - no family, no prospects.  He was made aware of the risks.  I don’t hide the rate of failure from people, Miss Hooper.”

“I know.  And, ah.  Speaking of which…”  She trailed off nervously, as if afraid to continue.

That alone was enough for John to figure out what subject she was approaching.  “…the Board.”

“Yes.  It’s not a question of your ethics.”  Which surprised her to no end, but she supposed John _did_ take every possible precaution to make sure they didn’t suffer, and he _did_ fully disclose the risks and fatality rate.  John wasn’t a cruel man, even if his research did seem to be driving him a bit off his rocker.  “They just…don’t think it’s possible.  If this next batch fails, they’re cutting fundi - “

“ _No._ ”  John spun to look at her, brow furrowed with horrified protest, mouth slightly open.  “No, Molly, no!  I’m so close, so _bloody_ close; they can’t stop it now!!  People are still volunteering, I’m still picking up information!!  It’s not failed, it’s just - just slow-going!”

“The Board isn’t exactly patient, Joh - Doctor Watson.”

John shook his head fiercely.  He turned back to the rows of tanks - so many of them empty now, only a fraction glowing with the pale pink-yellow fluid that kept them alive while the virus was administered.  “There’s nine left.  That’s nine more chances.  One of them will work.”

She sighed and looked at them each in turn, then pressed the button to drain the latest failure’s tank.  “I hope so.  I’ll call the BSFDU to take care of the body.”  She looked at him, shaking her head sadly as the fluid drained and he slumped to the floor of the tube in a crumpled, lifeless heap.  “And then I’m heading home.  Don’t stay up too late, Doctor.”

“You have a good night, Miss Hooper.”

* * *

  
  
S43-R67 died first, clawing at the acrylic walls that sheltered her and screaming.  S43-R65 followed a few days after her, and one by one, the others took their turns - all of them driven mad by what they saw in the sheltered recesses of their brains.  The glow in the aisle became dimmer and dimmer as each tank was drained, its light shut off, the bodies carted away by black-clad people who gave John silent, judgmental stares as they cleaned up his messes.

His failures.

John became a shivering wreck as the margin of survivors narrowed to two, and he would later admit to having cried when S43-R69 passed away while he was on his lunch break, fetching a bag of sausage rolls to-go.  John made a point of not leaving the office unless he needed to, not when the subjects were all so _delicate._

But it didn’t make a difference whether he was there or not.  John looked at S43-R70 with clouded eyes, lips curled down in grim resignation.  He looked at S43-R70’s papers - something he hadn’t done in a long time.  It was easier to swallow the catastrophe when he didn’t remind himself that these were _people,_ not just test subjects.  Not that he ever forgot, but the reminders hurt all the same.

**Subject Name:  William Sherlock Scott Holmes**  
 **Gender:  Male**  
 **Sex:  Male**  
 **Birthday:  Jan 6**  
 **Blood Type:  AB+**  
 **Synthetic Use:  P**  
 **Allergies:  N/A**  
 **Notes:  subject Holmes offered for laboratory experimentation as alternative punishment to prison time; human trials for psychological curatives highly recommended**

There was a tangle of important information beneath that - the reason for his arrest, medical history, family, contact information for said family.  Why did he have to have living relatives?  A mother, a father, and siblings…that was a lot of people to miss him.  John’s chest ached as he looked up at the man, suspended in fluid, brown hair curled about his head in thin, curvy waves.

“I’m sorry, William,” John said softly.  “You deserved better than this.”

There was a twitch from the monitor - brainwaves.  The pain in John’s chest tightened to a sharp, throbbing ache, and a dry sob escaped his throat.  That was how it always started, which meant this was the beginning of the end.

He couldn’t watch this.  S43-R70 - _William_ \- may have deserved better, but John couldn’t watch his life’s work die off.  Especially not thrashing and screaming the way his subjects all had.  John was about as far from hungry as it was possible to be, but he headed towards the break room anyway, deciding he’d microwave some fried rice or something.  He needed a distraction, that was all there was to it.  He’d distract himself, calm down, then go back in and call the BSFDU for the last time.

His motions were halting and robotic, and he did not taste the food he consumed.  He did not notice when it grew cold again, or when the hallway clock beeped to signal midnight.  It was almost an hour before John swallowed the pained nausea and shoved the takeout box, still half-full, into the garbage and headed back to the laboratory.

He was greeted by a gaze from a wide-open pair of pale blue-green eyes, one of which held a wedge of brilliant hazel.  John froze, mouth falling open, his own eyes widening on shock.  William wasn’t screaming, wasn’t kicking or punching or clawing.  He floated calmly, looking around with an obvious curiosity, fixing John in his gaze and pointing to his lifeline.

“Oh my god,” John breathed.  “Oh my god, oh my god.”  William frowned, apparently displeased with the fact that John was just standing there, and pointed at the line with greater emphasis.  John’s eyes widened to an almost comical level and he dashed towards the tank controls.  “Oh!  Right, of course.  Look, can you hear me?”

William nodded.

“Good, that’s good.  Now look - when the fluid is drained, you’re going to need to expel it from your lungs.  It will be uncomfortable, perhaps even a bit difficult, so let me know right now if you think you won’t be able to do it.”

William shook his head, waving a dismissive hand.

“Alright.  Here we go, then.”  John pressed the button to drain the tank, watching with elated fascination as William braced himself on the side of the tank, then hacked up the liquid in a single try the moment the fluid level dropped beneath his mouth.  He took a deep, raspy breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as his muscles readjusted to the weight placed on him by standing.  His muscles had not atrophied - John had always been very careful to make sure they were healthy in every aspect - and William seemed to regain himself quickly enough.  “How are you feeling?”

“Air is so _thin,_ ” William marveled.  “Breathing at all is nice, but breathing _air?_   Nothing like it.”

John nodded, looking at William’s monitor and feeling his heart soar.  “Everything’s stable,” he breathed.  “Stable.  I can’t believe…are you feeling confused?  Delirious?  Angry?  Are you seeing anything you shouldn’t be seeing?”

“I see a laboratory, and I’m hungry.  And naked.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” John repeated, releasing the pressure valve for the tank and letting it slide slowly upward.  William wobbled out onto the floor, looking down at the cold tile and hissing softly at the feeling of it on his feet.    “Alright, William, there’s a - “

“Sherlock.”

John paused.  “What?”

“Sherlock.  Not William.  I go by my middle name.”

“Oh.  Alright, then.”  John wasn’t clear on why he would go by ‘Sherlock’ rather than ‘Scott’, but it wasn’t his place to question.  Besides, he was too excited to care.  “There’s a questionnaire I need you to fill out, and then you and I are going to spend a lot of time together.  A _lot_ of time.”

“Must we?” Sherlock asked in a dry voice.

John swallowed a wave of irritation and responded, “Well, it’s me or prison.  And since you’re the first and only successful recipient of Watson’s Anima, I’d really rather you stay here so I can find out just how well it’s worked.”

“Right, right,” Sherlock said, nodding as if he’d forgotten all about the reason he’d been hooked up to a machine and confined to a tube for the last six months.  “The project.  It’s supposed to give me full, unclouded access to the secrets of my subconscious, right?”

“That’s right,” John responded.

“Fascinating…” Sherlock murmured.  “Simply fascinating.  What were you hoping to accomplish with it?”

“I was hoping it could be administered to mental patients whose cases were severe enough that they could not be reached by professionals - that with the help of Watson’s Anima, they could look into their problems, find the exact cause of their issues, and articulate them accordingly.  Or, even better, use their understanding to eliminate the problem all on their own.”

“How philanthropic of you.”  Sherlock tilted his head at John.  “Especially considering the fact that this is a modified virus.  You could have easily been conducting research of a far more fatal nature.”

“Ah…well, about that…”

“I meant intentionally fatal.”

John almost felt guilty, then he stopped to frown.  “Wait, how did you know it was a virus?  And how did you know that the experiment was killing people?  The details weren’t public, and you’ve been unconscious for months.”

Sherlock gave John such a cocky grin, John was gripped with the urge to punch him in the face.  He held it back, though, and listened with mounting awe as he responded, “You said I was the only recipient of Watson’s Anima.  That means you either succeeded on your first try or, what with the rows and rows of empty tanks, have failed many times and I mark your first successful human test.  Given the fact that you’re working with a modified virus, I think we both know which is more likely.”  Sherlock turned to face John, seemingly unbothered by his own nudity for the time being, and he didn’t pause for even a moment as he continued, “Now, how did I know you were working with a virus?  Simple.  A project of the magnitude you were trying for would have to deal directly with the human brain.  What can we use to alter perception that acts directly on the brain?  Medications wear off too quickly, surgery and prions are too risky.  No, you’d need something you could monitor directly, manipulate at will, and cease the evolution and adaptation of the moment you had what you wanted from it.  You’d need a virus.”

John blinked, mouth agape.  “That…that was _astounding._ ”

“Hm.”  Sherlock’s smirk widened.  “Do you want to know why they died?”

“I know why,” John responded, still feeling the bitter sting of their loss.  “Confronted by the nightmares they lock away, they literally panic themselves to death.  Hallucinations and delirium followed by cardiac arrest.”

“Yes, but why can I confront them?” Sherlock asked smugly.

“Well, I was hoping I’d find that out over the next few weeks, starting with the questionnaire.”

“No need.  I can tell you right now.”  Sherlock leaned sideways against a desk.  “Intellectual superiority.”

John made a rough, almost indignant noise.  “Quite sure of that, aren’t you!”

“I’ve been sure of it for a long time.  I’ve been told it can make me a bit…insufferable.”  Sherlock looked around the room and, finding whatever it was he’d cast eyes for, made his way over.  John wasn’t surprised in the slightest when we walked back over wearing a lab coat.  “Which poses an interesting question.”

John wasn’t sure exactly when he’d lost control of the situation, but he certainly didn’t feel like he had it any more.  Sherlock was disarming and shockingly cool for a man who’d just emerged from stasis.  Was it Watson’s Anima at work…or that ‘intellectual superiority’ Sherlock was so sure he had?  “So?  What’s the question?”

“Will you suffer me and obtain the secrets of your life’s work?” Sherlock asked.

John blinked at him in wonderment, then shook his head to snap himself out of his trance and turned to the filing cabinet on the wall.  Know-it-alls were irritating, yes, but this was more than just a social event.  This was years of work…and anyway, there was something fascinating about Sherlock, in an odd kind of way.  “How terrible can you be?  Now, come on.  The questionnaire, remember?”

Sherlock chuckled, his voice deep and smooth, as he walked over.  “You may regret that answer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ooh, my first time ever entering a Let's Write Sherlock thing!! :D I hope this is as fun to read as it was to write.
> 
> Playing Resident Evil for the past week has given me a bit of an interest in human experimentation and science fics, but I just couldn't bring myself to make John into a truly mad scientist, or Sherlock into his dangerous experiment. Ah, well. Maybe next time..?


End file.
